LA VIA DELLE BELLE DONNE

I have naturally taken some liberty as regards mere text in translating this tale, in order to render thebetter the spirit of the original; but not so much as may be supposed, and spirit and words are, on the whole, accurately rendered.

The reader is not to suppose that there are any traces of true history in this fairy tale. I am very greatly indebted to Miss Wyndham of Florence (who has herself made collections in folk-lore), for investigating this subject of the Feroni family, with the following result—it being premised that it had occurred to the lady that the “cannon-balls” or Medicean pills, or pawnbroker’s sign, whatever it was, had been attributed by mistake to the Feroni. Miss Wyndham, after consulting with authority, found that the Feroni themselves had not the balls, but, owing probably to transfer of property, there is found on their palaces the Alessandri shield, on which the upper half and lower left quarter contain the Medici spheres. She also sent me this extract from the old work,Marietta di Ricci:

“The Feroni family, originally named from Balducci da Vinci, and of peasant origin, owes its fortune to Francesco, son of Baldo di Paolo di Ferone, a dyer of Empoli. Going as a merchant to Holland, he accumulated a large fortune. Made known to Cosimo III. (just called to the Grand Duchy) by his travels, he was called to Florence. In 1673 he was made citizen of Florence, in 1674 he was elected senator, and in 1681 appointed Marquis of Bellavista. He left a colossal fortune, which has been kept up by his heirs to the present day. His grandson Guiseppe was made cardinal in 1753.“Their arms are an arm mailed in iron, holding a sword, and above it a golden lily in a blue field.”

“Their arms are an arm mailed in iron, holding a sword, and above it a golden lily in a blue field.”

This extract is interesting, as showing how a family could rise by industry and wealth, even in one generation, by the work of a single man, to the highest honours in Florence. And it is very remarkable that some impression of the origin of this vigorous artisan and merchant, of peasant stock, is evident in the tale. He is there cleverand strong, but vulgar and familiar, so that he was not personally liked. He remains standing open-mouthed, like a comic actor, when the fairy vanishes. In fact the whole tale suggests the elements of a humorous melodrama or operetta, abourgeois gentilhomme.

“And should it come to pass that any readThis tale in Viesseux, his library,In the Feroni palace, let them thinkThat, even in the rooms where they do read,The things which I have told once came to pass—Even so the echo ever haunts the shrine!”

“The church of San Gaetano, on the left of the Via Tornabuoni, faces the Palazzo Antinori, built by Giuliano di San Gallo. Opposite is the Via delle Belle Donne, a name, says Leigh Hunt, which it is a sort of tune to pronounce.”—Hare,Cities of Central Italy.

The name of this place is suggestive of a story of some kind, but it was a long time before I obtained the following relative to the Street of Pretty Women:

“In the Via delle Belle Donne there was a very large old house in which were many lodgers, male and female, who, according to their slender means, had two rooms for a family. Among these were many very pretty girls, some of them seamstresses, others corset-makers, some milliners, all employed in shops, who worked all day and then went out in the evening to carry their sewing to themaggazini. And it was from them that the street got its name, for it became so much the fashion to go and look at them that young men would say, ‘Andiamo nella Via delle Belle Donne,’—‘Let us go to the Street of the Pretty Women;’ so it has been so-called to this day.

“And when they sallied forth they were at once surrounded or joined by young men, who sought their company with views more or less honourable, as is usual. Among these there was a very handsome and wealthy signore named Adolfo, who was so much admired that he might have had his choice of all these belles, but he had fixed his mind on one, a beautiful blonde, who was, indeed, the fairest among them all. She had large black eyes, with quick glances, beautiful light hair in masses, and was always dressed simply, yet with natural elegance. She had long avoided making acquaintance among men, and she now shunned Adolfo; but at last he succeeded, after many difficulties, in becoming acquainted, and finally won her heart—the end of it all being the old story of a poor girl ruined by a gay and great signor, left a mother, and then abandoned.

“For four years she lived alone, by her work, with her child, who grew up to be a very beautiful boy. Then he, noting that other children had parents, asked her continually, ‘Mamma, where is my papa?’

“He gave her no rest, and at last she went to Adolfo and asked him what he would do for their child.

“He laughed at her, and said, ‘Nothing. That folly is all over. Begone!’

“Then, in a wild passion of rage at seeing her child so despised, she stabbed him to the heart, and escaped unseen and undiscovered.

“Then, when the boy asked her again:

“‘Cara madre, cara madre,Dove e lo mio padre?’“‘Mother dear, tell to meWhere may my father be?’

“‘Cara madre, cara madre,Dove e lo mio padre?’

“‘Mother dear, tell to meWhere may my father be?’

“She replied:

“‘Darling son, thy sire is dead,Lying in an earthen bed;Dead he ever will remain,By my dagger he was slain.Had he but been kind to thee,Living still he yet would be;Other sorrows I forgave,With my dirk I dug his grave.[220]

This is but a commonplace story, yet it is such as finds more currency among the people, and particularly among girls, than many a better one. There is a strong touch of nature, and especially of Italian nature, in the concluding lines.

“And dost thou fear to greetThe Dead with me. They graced our wedding sweet.”—Moore,The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.

“And dost thou fear to greetThe Dead with me. They graced our wedding sweet.”

—Moore,The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.

The following ballad may be classed as Florentine, since it was in Florence that I heard it sung, but it is not attached to any particular place. It is one of those compositions which are either sung or simply recited, and quite as often intoned in a manner which is neither singing nor speaking. In such chant, when a rhyme happens to fall in by chance, the utmost is made of it by dwelling on the word or drawling it out. Sometimes, as in the following, there are verses of four lines each, but only the concluding line of every verse rhymes,i.e., with the preceding last line of the previous stanza:

Il Streghone coi Denti Rossi.

“C’era un gran signoreChe una bella figlia aveva,Far la felice lo credeva,Col far la maritar.

“‘Babbo, no’voglio marito,Prendo uno soltanto,Se si uomo coi dente rossi,Di famelo trovar.’

“‘Figlia, non e possibileA me mi strazzi il cuorAvanti di morireVo farti tranquillo il cuor.’

“Un giorno allor comparvi,Un giovane assai bello,E denti rossi li teneva,La sua figlia, Amelia,‘Mi dica dove ella.’

“‘Io lo vo sposare,E con me la vo’ portare.’‘Dimmi dove la porti,Giovane sconosciuto,La mia figlia no ti rifiuto,Coi denti rossi lo vuol sposar?’

“Sposa la siora Amelia,E se la porta via.La casa dove sia,Questo poi non lo sa.

“La porta in una capanna,Di foglie, legno, e fieno,‘Ortello fa sapere,Se vuoi saper chi sono.

“‘Io sono un’ streghone,Te’l giuro in verita,La notte a mezzanotteIo ti faccio levar.

“‘Ti porto al camposanto,A sotterar i morti;E se tu vuoi mangiar,Quel sangue, bella mia,Tu l’ai da succiar.’

“La giovana disperata,Piange, grida e si dispera,Ma rimedio più non v’eraAnche lei una strega,Toccava diventar.”

Translation.

“There was a grand signoreWho had a daughter fair;He longed to see her happy,And wished that she were wed.

“‘Oh, father! I would not marry,I have vowed to have for my husbandOne with teeth as red as coral.Oh! find him for me,’ she said.

“‘My daughter, it is not possible,You wring and pain my heart.Ere I die and pass awayI would fain be at peace,’ said he.

“One day there appeared before herA knight of goodly seeming,His teeth were red as coral.Said the beautiful Amelia,‘There is the spouse for me.’

“‘I will marry her,’ said the knight,‘And bear her with me away.’‘Tell me where wilt thou take her,Thou strange and unknown man.I do not refuse her to thee,But whither wilt thou roam?’

“He married fair Amelia,And carried her far away.“Where is the house thou dwell’st in?And say where is thy home?’

“He took her to a cabin,All leaves and sticks and hay,‘My true name is Ortello.To-night, at the hour of midnight,I will carry thee away.

“‘I will bear thee to the graveyardTo dig up the newly dead;Then if thou hast thirst or hungerThou mayst suck the blood of the corpses,’To her the Sorcerer said.

“She wept in desperate sorrow,She wrung her lily hand,But she was lost for ever,And in the witches’ band.”

This was, and is, a very rude ballad; its moral appears to be that feminine caprice and disregard of parental love must be punished. It is very remarkable as having to perfection that Northern or German element which Goethe detected in a Neapolitan witch-song given in his Italian journey.[224]It has also in spirit, and somewhat strangely in form, that which characterises one of Heine’s most singular songs. It impresses me, as I was only yesterday impressed in the Duomo of Siena at finding, among the wood-carvings in the choir, Lombard grotesques which were markedly Teutonic, having in them no trace of anything Italian.

“Quaint mysteries of goblins and strange things,We scarce know what—half animal half vine,And beauteous face upon a toad, from whichOutshoots a serpent’s tail—the Manicore,A mixture grim of all things odd and wild,The fairy-witch-like song of German eld.”

“Wherever beauty dwells,In gulf or aerie mountains or deep dells,Thou pointest out the way, and straight ’tis won,Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death.”—Keats.“Silvestres homines sacer interpres que DeorumCædibus et victu deterruitOrpheus.Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque Leones.”—Horace.

“Wherever beauty dwells,In gulf or aerie mountains or deep dells,Thou pointest out the way, and straight ’tis won,Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death.”

—Keats.

“Silvestres homines sacer interpres que DeorumCædibus et victu deterruitOrpheus.Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque Leones.”

—Horace.

It may have happened to the reader, in his travels, to trace in some majestic mountain-land, amid rocky ravines, that which was, perhaps, in prehistoric times a terrible torrent or a roaring river. I mean, indeed, such a furious flood as is now unknown on earth, one which tore away the highest hills like trifles, melting them in a minute to broad alluvials, and ground up the grandest granite cliffs to gravel-dust, even as a mighty mill grates grain to flour.

You trace the course of the ancient river which when young vaulted the valley, which it had made, on either side with overhanging precipices, which now bend like silent mourners over its grave. And it seems to be dead and buried for ever.

Yet it may chance that, looking more deeply into its course to see if, perhaps, some flakes of antique gold are not to be found in the bed of the old water-course, you hear deep in some rocky crevice far below, and out of sight, the merry gurgle or voice-like murmur of a spring or unseen rivulet which indicates that the river of ancient days is not quite lost in the land. Unsuspected, like thesapphire serpent of Eastern legend, that diamond-clear rivulet has wound its mysterious course deep in the earth for ages, and, following its sound, you may come to some place where it again leaps forth into sunlight—little, indeed, yet ever beautiful. It is almost touching to see that diminished rill creeping timidly round the feet of giant boulders which it once rent in sport from the mighty rocks, and rolled into what were for it in its whilom power, mere marbles. It is small now, and very obscure, yet it lives and is ever beautiful.

Such a stream, which I traced yesterday in an ancient gorge in the heart of the Apennines, where the grey tower of Rocca looks down on the mysterious Ponte del Diavolo of the twelfth century—the most picturesque bridge in Italy—forcibly reminds me of the human stream of old tradition which once, as marvellous mythology or grand religion, roared and often raged over all this region, driving before it, and rending away, all the mighty rocks of human will, now tearing down and anon forming stupendous cliffs of observances, and vast monoliths of legend and faith. Such were the Etruscan and early Roman cults, which drove before them and engulfed irresistibly all the institutions of their time, and then disappeared so utterly that men now believe that the only remaining record of their existence is in their tombs or rocky relics of strange monuments.

But by bending low to earth, or seeking among the people, we may hear the murmur of a hidden stream of legend and song which, small and shrunken as it may be, is still the veritable river of the olden time. Many such streams are running in many lands, and that full openly on the earth’s surface, but this to which I specially refer is strangely occult and deeply hidden, for to find it we must seek among thestregeandstregoni, or witches and sorcerers, who retain as dark secrets of their own, marvellous relics of the myths of the early ages. These are,in many cases, so strangely quaint and beautiful that they would seem to have kept something of an original perfume which has utterly perished in the dried flowers of tradition preserved in books, or even by poets.

This seems to me to be the case with the incantation to Orpheus, which is now before me, written in rude dialect, which indicates, so to speak, the depth of the earth from which it was taken. I had asked the woman who gave it to me whether she knew such a name as that of Orpheus or Orfeo, as connected with music. This was the reply which I received:

Orfeo.

Scongiurazione a Orfeo per suonare bene uno Zuffolo. This is the invocation to Orpheus for him who would fain become a good player on the shepherd’s pipe.[227]

Scongiurazione.

“Ogni giorno io mi mettoQuesto zuffolo a suonare,Per poterlo bene inparare,E a preso dei maestriPer potermi fare insegnare,Ma non so come mi fare,Nella testa non mi vuole entrare,A che partito mi devo apigliare:Io non so come mi fare;Ma tu Orfeo che siei tanto chapacePer lo zuffolo, e il violino,Suoni bene pur lo organino,La chitarra e il mandolino,La gran cassa, il trombone,Suoni bene lo clarino,E non ’ce uno strumentoChe tu Orfeo tu non siaChapace di bene suonare,Per la musicha siei molto bravo,E tu ai ogni potenza,Che da diavoli siei protetto,Dunque insegnami come fare,Questo zuffolo va scongiurare,Per poter bene suonare,Questo zuffolo lo prendo,Sotto terra io lo metto,E tre giorni ce lo fo stare,A fine che tu Orfeo,Bene tu me lo facci a suonare;Che tanto siei amanteDi suonare sarai amante,Pur d’insegnare per quantoAi soferto la tuaAuradice,Dal inferno non potere levare,Ma vollo lei a preghare,Che ti aiuti questo zuffolo volere suonare,E tu che sempre e di musicha,Siei chapace che finoLe bestie ti vengono ascoltare,Orfeo! Orfeo! ti prego;Orfeo! volermi insegnareQuesto zuffolo bene suonare,E appena suonero,Il maestro musicho Orfeo ringraziero,E a tutti sempre faro,Sapere a chi mi a dato,Questo talento che le stato,Orfeo dal inferno lo scongiurato,E per la musicha o tanto,Pasione al mio zuffolo a dato,Lezione e lo zuffolo e un strumentoChe ne son tanto inamoratoChe dai miei vecchi era molto ramentato,E sempre mi dicevano,Se dinparar lo non siei chapace,Orfeo devi scongiurare;E cosi io faro,E Orfeo preghero!”

Translation.

“Every day I try, and yetI cannot play the flageolet;Many masters I have sought,Naught I learned from all they taught;I am dull, ’tis very true,And I know not what to doIn this strait, unless it be,Great Orpheus, to come to thee;Thou who the greatest skill didst win,On flageolet and violin,Who play’st the organ, pealing far,The mandolin and the guitar,Thou wak’st the clarion’s stirring tone,The rattling drum and loud trombone;On earth there is no instrument,Whate’er it be, to mortals sent,Enchanting every sense away,Which thou, O Orpheus! canst not play;Great must thy skill in music be,Since even the demons favour thee;And since on this my heart is set,Enchant, I pray, this flageolet,And that its tones may sweetly sound,I bury it beneath the ground;Three days shall it lie hidden thus,Till thou, O mighty Orpheus!Shalt wake in it by magic spellThe music which thou lov’st so well.I conjure thee by all the woeWhich grieved thy soul so long ago!And pain, when thyAuradiceFrom the dark realm thou couldst not free,To grant me of thy mighty willThat I may play this pipe with skill,Even as thou hast played before;For, as the story runs, of yore,Whenever thou didst wake its sound,The forest beasts came raptured round.Orpheus! Orpheus! I pray,Orpheus! teach me how to play!And when sweet music forth I bring,On every chord thy name shall ring,And every air which charms shall beA hymn of thanks, great lord, to thee!And unto all I’ll make it known,I owe it all to thee alone,And of the wondrous skill I’ll tell,Which mighty Orpheus won from hell.And by the music, and the power,Of passion in me, from this hourHenceforth in this sweet instrumentI shall be ever well content;For now, I do remember well,What ’twas my father oft would tell,That all who would learn music thusMust conjure mighty Orpheus,Even as I have done to-day,So I to him will ever pray.”

To which the manuscript adds in prose:

“Thus the peasants do when they do not succeed in playing the shepherd’s pipe, which they esteem beyond any other instrument.”

To any one who fully feels and understands what is meant to be conveyed by this incantation—and a great deal is expressed by passionate singing and a deep thrilling intonation which the text does not give—my translation will appear to be quite accurate. But, in any case, no scholar or poet can deny that there is in it a strange depth of classic feeling, or of old Roman romance, not strained at second-hand through books, but evidently drawn from rude antiquity, which is as fresh in its ring as it is marvellous.

It may be observed as exquisitely curious that in this incantation the peasant who wishes to become a skilled performer on the flageoletburies it for three days in the ground, invoking Orpheus by what the spirit suffered in losing Eurydice, and subsequently distinctly declaringthat he won or conjured his great musical power from Hades, which means that by the penance and loss, and his braving the terrors of the Inferno, he gainedskill. This is a mighty element of the myth in all its forms, in all ages, in every country. The burying the instrument for three days probably typifies the three days during which Orpheus was in hell.

It may be observed that Eurydice has becomeAuradicein the incantation, in which there is probably an intimation ofAura, a light wind or zephyr. Air is so naturally associated with music. This, by a very singular coincidence, yet certainly due to mere chance, recalls the invocation to the Spirit of the Air, given by Bulwer in “The Last Days of Pompeii”:

“Spectre of the viewless air,Hear the blind Thessalian’s prayer,By Erichtho’s art that shedDews of life when life was fled,By lone Ithaca’s wise king,Who could wake the crystal springTo the voice of prophecyBy the lost Eurydice!Summoned from the shadowy throng,At the muse-son’s magic song:Come, wild Demon of the Air,Answer to thy votary’s prayer.”

It is indeed very remarkable that in the call to the God of Music, who is in certain wise a spirit of the air, as in that to the Spirit of the Air himself, both are invoked:

“By the lost Eurydice!”

If it could be shown that Bulwer owed this poem and allusion to any ancient work or tradition, I should be tempted to believe that the popular invocation was derived from some source in common with the latter. There is indeed a quaint naïve drollery in the wordAuradice—“Air-tell!” or “Air-declare!” which adapts it better to the spirit of Bulwer’s poem, in which the air is begged totell something, than to the Orphean or Orphic spell. It may be that the Orphic oracles were heard in the voice of the wind, apropos of which latter there is a strange Italian legend and an incantation to be addressed to all such mystic voices of the night, which almost seems re-echoed in “Lucia”:

“Verrano a te sull’ aure,I miei sospiri ardenti,Udrai nell mar che mormoraL’eco de miei lamenti!”

It is worth observing that this tradition, though derived from the Romagna, was given to me in Florence, and that one of the sculptures on the Campanile represents Orpheus playing the pipe to wild beasts. It is said that in the Middle Ages the walls of churches were the picture-books of the people, where they learned all they knew of Bible legends, but not unfrequently gathered many strange tales from other sources. The sculptors frequently chose of their own will scenes or subjects which were well known to the multitude, who would naturally be pleased with the picturing what they liked, and it may be that Orpheus was familiar then to all. In any case, the finding him in a witch incantation is singularly in accordance with the bas-relief of the Cathedral of Florence, which again fits in marvellously well with Byron’s verse:

“Florence! whom I will love as wellAs ever yet was said or sung,Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell,Whilst thou art fair and I am young.“Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,When worlds were staked for ladies’ eyes.Had bards as many realms as rhymes,Thy charms might raise new Antonies!”

“Florence! whom I will love as wellAs ever yet was said or sung,Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell,Whilst thou art fair and I am young.

“Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,When worlds were staked for ladies’ eyes.Had bards as many realms as rhymes,Thy charms might raise new Antonies!”

True it is thatthisFlorence seems to have had dazzling eyes and ringlets curled; and it is on the other hand not true that Orpheus sang his spouse from hell—he onlytried to do it. And it is worth noting that one of the commonest halfpenny pamphlets sold in Florence, which is to be found at every public stand, is a poem called “Orpheus and Eurydice.” This fact alone renders it less singular that such classical incantations should exist.

The early Christians, notwithstanding their antipathy to heathen symbols, retained with love that of Orpheus. Orpheus was represented as a gentle youth, charming-wild beasts with the music of the pipe, or as surrounded by them and sheep; hence he was, like the Good Shepherd, the favourite type of Christ. He had also gone down into shadowy Hades, and returned to be sacrificed by the heathen, unto whose rites he would not conform.

Miss Roma Lister found traces of Orpheus among the peasantry about Rome, in a pretty tradition. They say that there is a spirit who, when he plays thezufoloor flageolet to flocks, attracts them by his music and keeps them quiet.

“Now there were certain shepherd families and their flocks together in a place, and it was agreed that every night by turns, each family should guard the flocks of all the rest. But it was observed that one mysterious family all turned in and went to sleep when their turn came to watch, and yet every morning every sheep was in its place. Then it was found that this family had a spirit who played thezufolo, and herded the flock by means of his music.”

The name is wanting, but Orpheus was there. The survival of the soul of Orpheus in thezufoloor pipe, and in the sprite, reveals the mystic legend which indicates his existing to other times. In this it is said that his head after death predicted to Cyrus the Persian monarch that he too would be killed by a woman (Consule Leonic,de var. histor., lib. i. cap. 17;de Orphei Tumulo in monte Olympo, &c., cited byKornmann de Miraculis Mortuorum, cap. 19). The legend of Orpheus, or of a living wife returning from another world to visit an afflictedhusband, passed to other lands, as may be seen in a book by Georgius Sabinus,in Notis ad Metamorp.Ovidii, lib. x.de descensu Orphei ad Inferos, in which he tells how a Bavarian lady, after being buried, was so moved by her husband’s grief that she came to life again, and lived with him for many years,semper tamen fuisse tristem ac pallidem—but was always sad and pale. However, they got on very well together for a long time, till one eveningpost vesperi potum—after he had taken his evening drink—being somewhat angry at the housemaid, he scolded her with unseemly words. Now it was the condition of his wife’s coming back to life and remaining with him that he was never to utter an improper expression (ut que deinceps ipse abstineret blasphemis conviciandi verbis). And when the wife heard her husband swear, she disappeared, soul and body, and that in such a hurry that her dress (which was certainly of fine old stiff brocade) was found standing up, and her shoes under it. A similar legend, equally authentic, may be found in the “Breitmann Ballads,” a work, I believe, by an American author. On which subject the learned Flaxius remarks that “if all the men who swear after their evening refreshments were to lose their wives, widowers would become a drug in the market.”

Of the connection betweenauraas air, and as anairin music, I have something curious to note. Since the foregoing was written I bought in Florence a large wooden cup, it may be of the eleventh century or earlier, known as amisura, or measure for grain, formerly called amodio, in Latinmodus, which word has the double meaning of measure for objects solid or liquid, and also for music. Therefore there are on the wooden measure four female figures, each holding a musical instrument, and all with their garments blowing in one direction, as in a high wind, doubtless to signifyaura, Italianaria, air or melody. These madonnas of the fourmodesare rudely but verygracefully sketched by a bold master-hand. They represent, in fact, Eurydice quadrupled.

There is a spirit known in the Toscana Romagna asTurabug. He is the guardian of the reeds or canes, or belongs to them like the ancient Syrinx. There is a curious ceremony and two invocations referring to him. Ivy and rue are specially sacred to him. One of these two invocations is solely in reference to playing thezufolo, partly that the applicant may be inspired to play well, and secondly, because the spirit is supposed to be attracted by the sound of the instrument. The very ancient and beautiful idea that divinities are invoked or attracted by music, is still found in the use of the organ in churches.

A large portion of the foregoing on Orpheus formed, with “Intialo,” the subject of a paper by me in Italian, which was read in the Collegio Romana at Rome at the first meeting of the ItalianSocieta Nazionale per le Tradizioni Popolari Italiani, in November 1893. Of which society I may here mention that it is under the special patronage of her Majesty Margherita the Queen of Italy, who is herself a zealous and accomplished folklorist and collector—“special patronage” meaning here not being a mere figurehead, but first officer—and that the president is Count Angelo de Gubernatis.

I believe that the establishment of this society will contribute vastly to shake in Italy the old-fashioned belief that to be a person of themostrespectable learning it is quite sufficient to be thoroughly acquainted with a few “classic” writers, be they Latin, French, or Italian, and that it is almost a crime to read anything which does not directly serve as a model or a copy whereby to “refine our style.” As regards which the whole world is now entering on a new renaissance, the conflict between the stylists and the more liberally enlightened having already begun.

But Orpheus, with the ecclesiastical witch-doctors, was soon turned into a diabolical sorcerer; and Leloyer writes of him: “He was the greatest wizard who ever lived, and his writings boil over with praises of devils and filthy loves of gods and mortals, . . . who were all only devils and witches.”

That Eve brought death and sin into the world by eating one apple, or a fig, or orange, or Chinese nectarine, or the fruit of the banana tree, or a pear, a peach, or everything pomological, if we are to believe all translators of the Bible, coincides strongly with the fact that Eurydice was lost for tasting a pomegranate. “Of the precise graft of the espalier of Eden,” says the author of the ‘Ingoldsby Legends,’ “Sanchoniathon, Manetho, and Berosus are undecided; the best informed Talmudists have, however . . . pronounced it a Ribstone pippin,” Eve being a rib. The ancients were happy in being certain that their apple was one of Granada.

“Hæc fabula docet,” writes our Flaxius, “that mysteries abound in every myth. Now, whether Orpheus was literally the first man who ever went to hell for a woman I know not, but well I ween that he was not the last, as the majority of French novelists of the present day are chiefly busy in proving, very little, as it seems to me, either to the credit of their country or of themselves. But there are others who read in this tale a dark and mysterious forewarning to the effect that ladiesà la modewho fall in love with Italian musicians or music-masters, and especially those who let themselves and their fortunes besifflées(especially the fortunes), should not be astonished when the fate of Eurydice befalls them. Pass on, beloved, to another tale!“‘Walk on, amid these mysteries strange and old,The strangest of them all is yet to come!’”

“‘Walk on, amid these mysteries strange and old,The strangest of them all is yet to come!’”

“O ombra che dalla luce siei uscita,Misuri il passo al Sole, all’uom la vita.”“Umbram suam mètuere.”“Badate.La vostra ombra vi avrà fatto paura.”—Filippo Pananti.“There is a feeling which, perhaps, all have felt at times; . . . it is a strong and shuddering impression which Coleridge has embodied in his own dark and supernatural verse that Something not of earth is behind us—that if we turned our gaze backward we should behold that which would make the heart as a bolt of ice, and the eye shrivel and parch within its socket. And so intense is the fancy, thatwhenwe turn, and all is void, from that very void we could shape a spectre as fearful as the image our terror had foredrawn.”—Bulwer,The Disowned.

“O ombra che dalla luce siei uscita,Misuri il passo al Sole, all’uom la vita.”

“Umbram suam mètuere.”

“Badate.La vostra ombra vi avrà fatto paura.”

—Filippo Pananti.

“There is a feeling which, perhaps, all have felt at times; . . . it is a strong and shuddering impression which Coleridge has embodied in his own dark and supernatural verse that Something not of earth is behind us—that if we turned our gaze backward we should behold that which would make the heart as a bolt of ice, and the eye shrivel and parch within its socket. And so intense is the fancy, thatwhenwe turn, and all is void, from that very void we could shape a spectre as fearful as the image our terror had foredrawn.”—Bulwer,The Disowned.

The resemblance and the relation of the shadow to the body is so strangely like that of the body to the soul, that it is very possible that it first suggested the latter. It is born of light, yet is in itself a portion of the mystery of darkness; it is the facsimile of man in every outline, but in outline alone; filled in with uniform sombre tint, it imitates our every action as if in mockery, which of itself suggests a goblin or sprite, while in it all there is something of self, darkling and dream-like, yet never leaving us. It is only evident in brightest hours, like a skeleton at an Egyptian feast, and it has neither more nor less resemblance to man than the latter. Hence it came that the strange “dwellers by the Nile” actuallyloved both shade and death by association, and so it happened that

“Full many a timeThey seemed half in love with easeful Death;Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,”

while they made of the cool shadow a portion of the soul itself, or rather one of the seven or eight entities of which man consisted, these being—Khat, a body;Ba, the spirit;Khon, the intelligence;Khaïbit,the shadow;Ren, the name;Ka, eternal vitality;Ab, the heart; andSahn, the mask or mummy.

It is extremely interesting to consider, in connection with this Egyptian doctrine, the fact, illustrated by every writer on Etruscan antiquity, that these ancient dwellers in Italy, when they represented the departed, or the dead, as living again on a tomb, added to the name of the deceased the wordHinthial. This I once believed meant simply a ghost or spirit. I had no other association with the name.

I inquired for a long time if there was any such name asHintialfor a ghost among the people, and could not find it. At last my chief agent succeeded in getting from sources to me unknown, but, as in all cases, partly from natives of the Toscana Romagna, or Volterra, and at different times, very full information regarding this mysterious being, which I combine as follows:

Intialo.

“This is a spirit in human form who shows himself in any shadow,[238]and diverts himself by inspiring terror in a sorcerer, or in any one who has committed a crime. He causes a fearful shadow to be ever present to the man, and addresses him thus:

Il domone al Stregone.

“Vile—tu non potraiAvere mai bene—avraiSempre la mia ombraIn tua presenza, e saroVendicato . . .[239]

“Tu non potrai giammaiEssere solo, che l’ombraMia ovunque andraiTi seguira: tu non potraiEssere mai solo, tu saraiSempre in mio potere!

“Al mio incantesimo non avraiNe pace ne bene, al mioIncanto tu tremerai,Te e tutta la casa dove ti troverai,Se sei in mezzo alla strada,Tu tremerai—Te e tutta la terra!

“Al mio volere tu andraiCome cane alla pagliaio,Alla voce del suo maestro;Tu me vorraiVedere, e non mi vedrai,Mi sentirai—Vedrai sola la tua ombra.

“Tu sei cattivo e scelerato,Tu sei avelenato,Nel cuore e nell anima,E più bene non avrai,Sei avelenato nel cuore,E nell anima, vai,Tu siei maladetto;E il spirito sempre ti seguiraOvunque tu vada!”

Translation.

The Demon to the Sorcerer.

“Wretch! long lost in wickedness,Thou shalt ne’er have happiness;Though to distant lands thou’lt flee,Still my shadow thou shalt see,And I will revengèd be.

“Solitude thou ne’er shalt know,Where thou goest my shade shall go,And wherever thou mayst flyStill the shadow will be by—Ne’er alone at any hour,And for ever in my power.

“By my spell thou ne’er shalt knowPeace or joy on earth below,At my charm a deadly fearShall seize on all men standing near;Thou shalt tremble in thy home,Or if thou abroad shouldst roam,Shivering with fear thou’lt be,And the earth shall shake with thee.

“At my bidding thou must stir,And hasten as the vilest curMust hasten when his master calls,And leave his straw amid the stalls;And if thou wouldst gaze on me,Still my form thou shalt not see;Thou shalt feel when I am here,Feel me in thy deadly fear,Yet only see thy shadow near.

“Thou art vile and wicked too,Thou art poisoned through and through;In thy heart and in thy soul,Cursedness is in the whole,In thy soul and in thy heart,Poison steeped in every part.Cursed ever! now, depart!Yet wherever thou shalt fleeI will ever follow thee!

“Then this man will be in terror, and he will ever see the shadow before him by day and by night, and thus he will have no peace, and yet this is all the time the spirit of Intialo.

“Now, when he is thus tormented for some past misdeed, and he feels himself haunted, as it were, by the shadow of the one whom he has wronged, when he finds at last that he is not pursued, indeed, by it, but by Intialo, then he shall repeat the Exorcism:

Scongiurazione di Intialo.

“Intialo! Intialo! che quandoUna persona ai preso,O per seguitare le ingombriLe ingombri sempre la cammina.

“Intialo! Intialo! se liberoIl passo mi lascerai meglioPer te sara, se non mi verraiLasciare ti faccio sapereTu sarai sempre in mio potere.

“Intialo! Intialo! ti faccio sapere,Se metto in operaLa mia scongiurazione,Non ti lasciero più bene avere,E ogni mi a chiamataTi faro correreCome chane al pagliaio.

“Intialo! Intialo!Ti faccio sapereChe tu pensi a fareIl tuo dovere,Se ancora mi viene a tormentareMuso di porco tu possa diventare.

“Intialo! Intialo!Tu siei furbo e maligno,Ma io me ne infischio,Perche io sono di te,Molto più maligno.

“Intialo! Intialo! ti pregoDi non mi più tormentareSe vuoi aver bene,Se no ti acquisteraiDelle pene—e questo saraIl tuo guadagno.

“Intialo! Intialo!Con tutta la tua furberia,Non sai ancoraChe io son protettoDa una bella streghaChe mi adora.

“Intialo! Intialo!Se più ne vuoi sapereVieni sta sera,Vièni a mezza notte,Viene di dove sei,Te lo faro vedere,Vieno sotto ’quel noceE tu lo vedrai.

“Intialo! Intialo!La mezza notte in punto,Noi l’abbiamo,E ti vedo (vedro) appogiatoAl noce che credi di vedere,Vedere l’ombra mia,E vedi l’ombra tua stessa!

“Intialo! Intialo!Dentro al mio senoQuattro cose tengo,Che mi fanno vedere,E non son veduto,Ellera, pane,Sale e ruta,E la mia buona fortuna.

“Intialo! Intialo!Non ti voglio dire,Perche io voglioAndare a dormire;Ma solo ti ho fattoTi ho fatto vedereChe non son’ in poter tuo,Ma tu siei in mio potere.”

The Exorcism of Intialo.

“Intialo! it is knownWhen thou followest any one,Be the victim whom he may,Thou art ever in his way.

“Intialo—hear! if freeThou wilt leave the road to me,Better for thee shall it be;If thou wilt not, from this hourI will hold thee inmypower.

“Intialo! thou shalt learnThat I’m wizard in my turn;All the power of sorcerySo about thee I will throw—All around, above, below—That thou shalt accursed be,Held in fear and agony,And as a dog shalt follow me.

“Intialo! thou shalt knowWhat thou art ere thou canst go;If thou comest here againTo torment or give me pain,As thou’dst make a dog of me,I will make a swine of thee.

“Intialo! sorry cheat,Filled with hate from head to feet,Be malignant if you will,I am more malignant still.

“Intialo! for thy sakeI pray thee no more trouble takeTo torment me, for thy gainWill only be thy greater pain,For so cursed thou shalt beThat I needs must pity thee.

“Intialo! now, confessThat with all thy craftinessThou didst not know what now I tell,That I am protected wellBy a lovely witch, and sheIs mightier far, O fiend! than thee.

“Intialo! ere we go,If thou more of me wouldst know,Come at midnight—I shall be’Neath the witches’ walnut tree,And what I shall make thee seeI trow will be enough for thee.

“Intialo! in that hourThou shalt truly feel my power,And when thou at last shalt weenThat on the witches’ tree I lean,Then to thee it shall be knownThat my shadow is thine own.

“Intialo! everywhereWith me magic charms I bear,Ivy, bread and salt and rue,And with them my fortune too.

“Intialo! hence away,Unto thee no more I’ll say;Now I fain would go to sleep,See that thou this warning keep.I am not in power of thine,But thou truly art in mine.”

I had the belief, derived from several writers, thatHinthialin Etruscan meant simply a ghost orrevenant—the apparition of some one dead. But on mentioning mydiscovery of this legend to Professor Milani, the Director of the Archæological Museum in Florence, and the first of Etruscan scholars, he astonished me by declaring that he believed the word signified ashadow, and that its real meaning in its full significance had apparently been marvellously preserved in this witch-tradition. Too little is known as yet of the old Etruscan language to decide with certainty as to anything in it, but should this opinion of Professor Milani be sustained, it will appear that at least one word of the mysterious tongue has existed till now in popular tradition.

There will be very few of my readers who will not be struck, as I was, with the remarkable resemblance of the terrible curse uttered by Intialo to the invocation in Byron’s tragedy of “Manfred.” It is like it in form, spirit, and, in many places, even in the very words. That there was, however, no knowledge of the English poem by the Italian witch-poet, and therefore no imitation, is plain from intrinsic evidence. As the question is interesting, I will here give the Incantation from “Manfred”:

Incantation.

“When the moon is on the wave,And the glow-worm in the grass,And the meteor on the grave,And the wisp on the morass;When the falling stars are shooting,And the answered owls are hooting,And the silent leaves are stillIn the shadow of the hill,Shall my soul be upon thineWith a power and with a sign.

“Though thy slumber may be deep,Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;There are shades which shall not vanish,There are thoughts thou canst not banish;By a power to thee unknownThou canst never be alone;Thou art wrapt as with a shroud,Thou art gathered in a cloud,And for ever shalt thou dwellIn the spirit of this spell.

“Though thou see’st me not pass by,Thou shalt feel me with thine eye,As a thing that, though unseen,Must be near thee, and hath been;And when in that secret dreadThou hast turned around thy head,Thou shalt marvel I am notAs thy shadow on the spot,And the power which thou dost feelShall be what thou must conceal.

“And a magic voice and verseHath baptized thee with a curse,And a spirit of the airHath begirt thee with a snare;In the wind there is a voiceShall forbid thee to rejoice;And to thee shall night denyAll the quiet of her sky;And the day shall have a sunWhich shall make thee wish it done.

“From thy false tears I did distilAn essence which hath strength to kill;From thy own heart I then did wringThe black blood in its blackest spring;From thy own smile I snatched the snake,For there it coiled as in a brake;From thy own lip I drew the charmWhich gave all these their chiefest harm;In proving every poison known,I found the strongest was thine own.

“By thy cold breast and serpent smile,By thy unfathomed depths of guile,By that most seeming virtuous eye,By thy shut soul’s hypocrisy,By the perfection of thine art,Which passed for human thine own heart;By thy delight in others’ pain,And by thy brotherhood of Cain,I call upon thee, and compelThyself to be thy proper hell!

“And on thy head I pour the vialWhich doth devote thee to this trial;Not to slumber, nor to die,Shall be in thy destiny,Though thy death shall still seem nearTo thy wish, but as a fear;Lo! the spell now works around thee,And the clankless chain hath bound thee:O’er thy heart and brain togetherHath the word been passed—now wither!”

The Italian poem forms, in its first and second parts, a drama as complete as that of “Manfred,” and, as I hope to render clear, one more consistent to the leading idea, or, as critics were wont to say, “more coherent in the unities.” This idea in the one, as in the other, is that of a powerfulsorcererassailed by a fiend in the form of remorse, and that with the most aggravating and insulting terms of contempt. In “Manfred” the persecutor tells his victim that he shall be his own hell, for that of all poisons his own evil heart is the worst. The Italian, more direct and less metaphysical still, alludes, in the accusation by the spirit, to no other punishment save that of conscience, and declares the magician to be poisoned through and through in himself:

“Tu sei cattivo e scelerato,Tu sei avvelenatoNel cuore e nell anima,”

and bids him go forth to be for ever pursued by the avenger.

Byron’s poem is entirely based on sorcery, and is intended to set forth the tremendous mental struggles of amind which has risen above mankind with supernatural power, which assails him with remorse. In the first place he simply goes to sleep; in the grand finale he resists, like Don Juan, or, as the saying is, “dies game”—“only this, and nothing more”—leaving all idea of an end, object, moral, or system, entirely in the dark. “Manfred” is merely dramatic for the sake ofstage effect, and only excellent in impressing us with the artistic skill of the author. Its key is art for the sake of art, and effect on anybody, no matter who. Within this limit it is most admirable.

In both the Italian and English poems the one persecuted makes his strong point of departure from the discovery or knowledge that the persecuted is not one whom he has injured, but simply a mocking and tormenting sprite. Thus the former text declares that when he finds he is pursued simply by Intialo, the shadow, which we may here translate “his own imagination,” he rallies with a tremendous counter-curse in which far more is meant than meets the eye. The grand mission of themagusor sorcerer in all the occult lore of all antiquity, whether he appear as Buddha or any other man of men, is to conquer all enemies by tremendous power won by penance or by ironwill. A favourite means of tormenting the enemy or fiend is to awaken the conscience of the magician, or, what is the same thing, to tempt him to sin, as Satan did Christ. But even conscience loses its power when we feel that the foe is exaggerating our sins, and only urging them for torment’s sake, and especially when these sins are of a kind which from acertainstandpoint or code, are not sins at all.

And here we are brought to a subject so strange and witch-like that it is difficult to discuss or make clear. It is evident enough in “Manfred” that the great crime was the hero’s forbidden love for his sister Astarte. This it is which crushes him. But it does not appear from theItalian (save to those deeply learned in the darker secrets of sorcery) why or how it is that the one persecuted so suddenly revives and defies the spirit, turning, as it were, his own power against him. In explaining this, I do not in the least conjecture, guess, or infer anything; I give the explanation as it was understood by the narrator, and as confirmed by other legends and traditions. It is this:

Michelet, inLa Sorciére, which amid much lunacy or folly contains many truths and ingenious perceptions, has explained that the witchcraft of the Middle Ages was a kind of mad despairing revolt against the wrongs of society, of feudalism, and the Church. It was in very truth the precursor of Protestantism. Under the name of religion conscience had been abused, and artificial sins, dooming to hell, been created out of every trifle, and out of almost every form of natural instincts. The reaction from this (which was a kind of nihilism or anarchy), was to declare the antitheticexcessof free will. One of the forms of this revolt was the belief that the greatest sorcerers were born (ex filio et matre) from the nearest relations, and that to dare and violate all such ties was to conquer by daring will the greatest power. It was the strongest defiance of the morality taught by the Church, therefore one of the highest qualifications for an iron-willed magician. It is specially pointed out in the legend of Diana that she began by such a sin, and so came to be queen of the witches; and the same idea of entire emancipation or illumination, or freedom from all ties, is the first step to the absolute free will which constitutes the very basis of all magic. This, which is repugnant to humanity, was actually exalted by the Persian Magi to a duty or religious principle, and it was the same in Egypt as regarded “first families.” The sorcerer pursued by Intialo bases all his power to resist on the mere fact that he is beloved by a beautiful witch. This is the Astarte of theItalian drama, or a sister—the terrible tie which shows that a man is above conscience, and free from all fear of the powers that be, whether of earth or air. By it his triumph is complete. He surmounts the accusation of being without morals by utterly denying their existence from a higher or illuminated point of view. Themagusclaims to rank with the gods, and if a divinitycreatesmankind as his children, and then has a child by a woman, he is in the same state as the sorcerer, according to wizards.

If any reproach attaches to the employment of such an element in poetry, then Byron and Shelley are far more to blame than the Italian witch-poet, who veiled his allusion with much greater care than they did, and who had the vast excuse ofsincere belief, while their highest aim was mere art. The wizard-poet has his heart in this faith, as in a religion, and he is one with his hero. Manfred is at best only a broken-down magician who presents a few boldly dramatic daring traits—the Italian sorcerer, who is far more defiant and fearless, conquers. “I am more malignant than thou art,” is a terrible utterance; so is the tone of affected pity for the baffled tormentor, in which we detect a shade of sarcasm based on overwhelming triumph. This feeling, be it observed, progresses,crescendo forte, gradually and very artistically, from the first verse to the last. Intialo has threatened to make the victim a sorry cur who comes at a call; the sorcerer replies that he will make “a swine’s snout” of Intialo. Finally, he dares the fiend to meet him at midnight at the great Witches’ Sabbat, at the dread walnut-tree of Benevento. Here the threats reach an ingenious and terrible climax, though the form in which they are expressed is only quite clear to the initiated. The sorcerer says, “When thou thinkest that thou see’st my shadow thou wilt behold thine own,” or in other words, “You who have sought to torment me by ashadowshallyourself be mocked by finding that you are only mine.” This climax of daring the fiend to meet him at Benevento, at the tremendous and terrible rendezvous of all the devils, witches, and sorcerers, and then and there trying conclusions with him in delusion and magic, or a strife of shadows, while leaning against the awful tree itself, which is the central point of the Italian Domdaniel, is magnificently imagined.

In Goethe’s “Faust,” as in Byron’s “Manfred,” the hero is a magician, but he is not in either true to the name or character. The greatmagusof early ages, even like the black Voodoo of America, had it clearly before him all the time that his mission or business, above all things, was to develop an indomitablewillsuperior to that of men or spirits. Every point is gained byforce, or by will and penance. In real sorcery there is no such thing as a pact with a devil, and becoming his slave after a time. This is a purely later-Roman invention, a result of the adoption of the mixture of Jewish monotheism and Persian dualism, which formed the Catholic Church. In Goethe’s “Faust” we have the greatest weakness, and an extreme confusion of character. The conclusion of the tale is contradictory or absurd, and the difficulty is solved with the aid of aDeus ex machina. The hero is a sorcerer, andthere is not a trace of true sorcery or magianism or tremendous will and work in the whole drama. Beautiful things are said and done, but, take it for all in all, it is a grand promenade which leads to nothing.[251]

In the Italian legend, brief and rude as it is, there appears a tremendous power worked out with great consistency. The demon or spirit, intent on causing remorse or despair (ad affretare il rimorso), threatens the sorcerer with terrible maledictions. And these words, if we regardtheir real meaning and spirit, have never been surpassed in any poem.

And we should note here that the Italian sorcerer who subdues the devil by simple will and pluck is no Manfred or Faust drawn from the religious spirit of the Middle Ages. He belongs to the Etruscan age, or to that of the ancient Magi; he meets malediction with malediction, spell with spell, curse with curse, injury with injury, sarcasm and jeer with the same; he insults the devil, calling him his slave:

“Perche io sono di te—molto più maligno.”

Until in the end they change parts, and the demon becomes the one tormented. Therefore there is in this legend, with all its rudeness, a conception which is so grand, as regards setting forth the possible power of man, and theeritis sicut deusof modern science, that it is in unity and fulness far beyond any variant of the same subject.

That this is of great antiquity is clear, for out of this enchanted forest of Italian witchcraft and mystical sorcery there never yet came anything, great or small, which was not at least of the bronze, if not of the neolithic age.

Truly, when the chief character in a tradition of the old Etruscan land bears an Etruscan name, or that of a shadow called a shadow, we may well conclude that it is not of yesterday. So all things rise and bloom and pass away here on this earth to winter and decay, and are as phantoms which

“Come like shadows, so depart.”

For a last word, “Manfred” and “Faust” are only works of art, intended to “interest” or amuse or charm the reader, and as such they are great. They are simply dramas or show-pieces, which also give a high idea of the artistic skill of their writers. “Intialo” sets forth the great idea of the true sorcerer, in which they bothfail, and carriesit out logically to a tremendous triumph. It is the very quintessence of all heresies, and of the first great heresy,eritis sicut deus.

There will not be wanting one or two critics of the low kind who take their hints from the disavowals of the author to declare that his book is just what it is not, who will write that I think I have discovered a better poet than Keats in Marietta Pery, and a far greater than Goethe or Byron in the unknown author of the invocation to “Intialo.” But all that Itruly meanis that the former is nearer to old tradition, and more succinct than the English bard—“only this and nothing more”—while in “Intialo” we have given, as no one ever expressed it, the true ideal of the magician who, overcoming all qualms of conscience, whether innate or suggested, and trampling under foot all moral human conventions, rises towill, and victory over all enemies, especially the demons of the threshold. As a poem, I no more claim special merit for it than I would for Marietta’s;[253]indeed, to the very considerable number of “highly cultivated” people who only perceive poetry in form and style, and cannot find it in the grandest conceptions unless they are elegantly expressed, what I have given in this connection will not appear as poetry at all.

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